


honours, beauties, wits

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dyanmics, Alternate Universe- Medieval Ages, Anal Sex, But also, Historical Inaccuracies, Kinda?, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Cycles, Medieval AU, Mentions of Rape, Mild Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, PWP, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Self Indulgent Medieval Porn, Slight Age Difference, Some vague Game of Thrones-esque era, Virgin Sherlock, but nothing happens to Sherlock, in heat, it doesn't matter, knight!John, prince!Sherlock, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: These thoughts don’t seem so dangerous in the half light of the library, especially when his head is heavy with drink and Sherlock’s figure is blurred around the edges. It seems almost natural that he should push Sherlock against the shelves, hold him by the hips and press their mouths together, swipe his tongue inside to know the taste of him, for his hands to wander down his delicious body, perhaps crawl under his tunic to brush the pale, soft skin-Sherlock was his charge. His duty. He had sworn an oath to protect him- and John would sooner die than allow his prince to come to any harm. But when he chances upon Sherlock in a compromising position- will he be able to protect him from himself?What if Sherlock doesn't want him to?





	honours, beauties, wits

**Author's Note:**

> expect nothing from this series except porn, and some angst that tries to cover up the absence of plot. You have been warned.
> 
> (Decided to make this a multi chapter instead of a series for....reasons. Chapter count unsure, but will be short) 
> 
> NOTE: Sherlock is 16 in the story, and John is mid twenties. The age of consent in UK is 16, so I haven't added the 'underage' tag. However, if sixteen year old sherlock having sex with an older man is a squick for you, be free! Enjoy the other amazing fics this fandom has to offer! :>

John is expecting to find the prince waiting patiently for him in the courtyard, sword in hand and stance perfect, ready for their duel. He was of course, disappointed. Disappointed, but not surprised. Prince Sherlock made quite a habit of refusing to come for his swordplay lessons, choosing instead to hide in the library or bother the Priest about the credibility of religion ( _Yes, but can you prove beyond doubt that the Gods do exist?)_ or escape to the Crypt to pour over his ancestor’s faces, trying to deduce things about them, even though it was only their likeness, carved into stone.

 

“Have you let him run off again, then?” he asks Tristan, his second-in-command, roughly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Tristan scowls and makes a noise of disapproval.

 

“Young boy like him should be begging us for all the lessons he can get. Sixteen summers old and can’t even hold a sword properly…”

 

“There, there. Perhaps scholarly pursuits are written in the young prince’s fate,” one of the younger soldiers say. He smiles crookedly. “Not that his brother is any better with a sword.”

 

“Mean with the bow, though,” John relents, sheathing his sword. “Nevertheless, the prince must be brought here, by force if necessary.” The soldiers exchange raised eyebrows, a few anticipatory grins, one of them makes a lewd comment while the others laugh. John silences them with a glare. It wouldn’t do to encourage the men to engage in that kind about Sherlock. He was barely a child.

 

Although it always was amusing when Prince Sherlock was brought in, kicking and screaming, silver eyes flashing mutinously and boyishly pink mouth turned down in a deep scowl. He would drag his feet and brandish his sword in a most unwieldy fashion, constantly trying to poke John’s eye out in the process.

 

“Tristan and Ronald, go look for him in the crypt. Ulric, Oliver, Geoff- off to the armoury. Tybalt, you can take the stables. I’ll look for the lad in the library.”

 

They wander off in various directions, laughing and joking about finding the young prince kissing a pretty girl in the stables. John snorts. Sherlock couldn’t be less interested in kissing _anyone,_ girl or boy. The lad was far more preoccupied with his studies- he was the most clever prince in all of the land, and once he was of age, he would make a most excellent administrator. Although he could barely see Sherlock showing in interest in the matters of state, either. The boy would make a most formidable sorcerer, if his father ever allowed him to pursue the Arts. It was doubtful, though; the king, though appreciative of the advantages magic brought them in fighting wars, would prefer that his own son not dabble in the subject. After all, magic gives men power, and power makes men do funny things.

 

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when he’s reached the library. The enormous ornate doors, carved out of wood, have been thrown open. John sighs, resenting having to force Sherlock to come for his lessons. He hated pulling him away from his beloved books and forcing him into the sand and blood and violence of the arena; but war was an ever lingering threat and if the prince could not defend himself in battle, he would die. John could not protect him forever; it was so easy to forget that Sherlock was practically a man- no longer the small, dark haired boy who ran amok in the castle, leaving destruction in his wake and frightening the maids.

 

No, John thought, as he finally found Sherlock lounging on the floor in an obscure corner of the library, slender legs stretched out and feet planted on the opposite wall, book balanced on his chest. Sherlock was certainly not a child anymore, as much as he may consider him one.

 

John’s Alpha instincts had led him to care for the prince in a manner which extended his royal duties. He would rather die than see any harm come to him, take an arrow gladly for his younge liege. Like a younger brother, perhaps, or- a son. Or even a - heat rushes into his cheeks at the word that comes unbidden, to his mind, and he viciously pushes it away.

 

“My lord-” John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off with a low drawl of, “Ser Watson.”

 

The prince’s voice has deepened over the year, yet it has not completely broken. It was the only sign of his possible gender. But he had remained Unpresented so far- and was likely to remain a Beta. But that would hardly act against his favour- the Prince was- well. John swallows, watching as the prince stretches languorously, standing up gracefully to face him. The prince was a rare beauty, with the willowy, slender musculature of an omega but the hard, unyielding eyes of an Alpha- and a spirit so temperamental and untameable that it eluded definition.

 

“You’ve come to collect me for my sword lessons. No need to preen quite so much, it hardly was a chore to find me. I knew you would come looking for me here, yet I decided against finding a better hiding spot.” He pushes some of his thick curls back from his pale forehead, fixing him with his silver eyes, which regard him mischievously.

 

John allows a half smile to curve his mouth- the prince makes it far too easy to forgive him. One pout of that pale pink mouth- and John would allow him to have his way.  “Are you saying you find yourself to be a match for me, My Lord?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, John becomes lost momentarily in the opalescent loop. Even before Sherlock makes his next move, John finds his muscles tense instinctively. Years of battle training, and more importantly, sixteen years protecting Sherlock, have taught him that the boy is not quite so as unpredictable as he thinks he is. Not to John, at least.

 

He is able to whoosh past John for a second before John grabs him roughly by the scruff of his neck. The boy growls, an adorable little noise that makes him sound like a wolf pup play fighting with his siblings- and makes to wrench out of John’s grasp. All it takes is a leg swiping out and nudging him slightly in the knee and Sherlock drops to his knees, winded.

 

His sword is unsheathed in a second, and in the next he has the blunt edge of it pressed against Sherlock’s pale throat, pushing him back until the back of his head is pillowed against John’s gut.

 

“That-s- that’s not-” Sherlock splutters, annoyed and blushing furiously. “You _cheated._ ”

 

“Hardly,” John replies mildly. He presses the edge a little harder against Sherlock’s throat. Something dark and primitive rises its head as Sherlock makes a shocked little noise of protest. “This is something even you could fight off, my little prince, had you attended your combat lessons.”

 

Sherlock bristles, clearly hating John’s old nickname. He was his ‘little prince’ when he was much younger, but John still uses it to set him off.

 

“Very well,” he spits, pushing John’s sword away. John loosens his arm and allows it. He gets up, less gracefully than before. He turns around and fixes John with a fierce glare. His cheeks glow pink, and he smells- different, suddenly. It’s barely a waft but it crawls up through John’s nose and settles inside his brain and squeezes. And then it’s gone, and the prince smells like himself again, clear as rainwater with the dull undertone of lemon.

 

“Your lessons are for you to learn to defend yourself,” John says gruffly, bringing his gaze up from the curve of a delicate collarbone that has been revealed when the neck of his tunic slipped down.  He discreetly sniffs the air to get another whiff. “Come along now, My Lord. You’ve wasted an entire morning. Shall I have to escort you like a prisoner?”

 

“You can keep your sword to yourself until we’re downstairs,” Sherlock snaps, turning around haughtily and marching out of the room. John follows, subconsciously adjusting his breeches until he realises why. Throat burning, he ignores the possibility and focuses on other things- sharpening his sword, slicing a man’s head clean off, steaming guts falling out of their insides.

 

Yes, he thinks pathetically. That should help.

 

***

 

Sherlock had never really considered the matter of his gender to be of any vital importance. He didn't have to be King because Mycroft was his elder and an Alpha, and Sherlock could more or less do as he pleased.

 

He had never felt much like an Alpha, either. Everyone in the castle had treated him as though he was made of glass; perhaps believing that Sherlock would one day present as an Omega. But his fifteenth name-day had come and gone, and usually, children would Present by then. Perhaps Sherlock was to remain a Beta, which he didn't see interfering with his Work in any way, and he was happy.

That was, of course, until John had returned from his Crusade last year, and Sherlock found it much more difficult to be in his presence. He hadn't seen the knight in two years and much had changed; his skin darkened by the sun, his hair longer, his eyes harder. There was a darkness in him that hadn't been there before, and it made Sherlock shiver in a way he found both terrifying and delicious. When Ser John had embraced him, laughing, his scent, which had never bothered him before, coiled around him and settled into his head so it couldn't leave. It was so strange and confusing, because Sherlock was still a Beta and there was no way he could respond like that.

 

But it certainly hadn't ended there. The next time Sherlock had gone to him for dueling lessons, he could barely concentrate. All he could see was the coil of his muscles under his tunic, his crooked smile, the knife-scar right under his jaw. John's eyes seemed to burn bluer, when he would bring Sherlock to his knees, a sword to his stomach or the back of his neck, his gut would twist into knots and his skin would heat like John was the sun.

 

It was not explainable. And yet.

 

But John would never- he couldn't. He was a knight and Sherlock was the prince, and he would never touch him- not in that way. For God's sake, John still ruffled his hair and pulled his cheek and called him "My Little Prince”. It was an annoying nickname, and yet, endearing when the words formed on John's tongue. And John would undoubtedly prefer an omega- a young pretty thing who would bat their eyelashes at him and call him "John" in a simpering voice and John would fuck them and they would have his pups-

Sherlock swallows, image after image forming in his mind. It wasn't _proper,_ his feelings for John. And even  if he didn't give a damn about propriety, John did. He would, if Sherlock ever offered himself. John was sworn to protect him, to die for him in battle, to take any arrow that was destined for Sherlock. If anyone ever found out, John could be beheaded.

 

Sherlock screws his eyes shut, an angry hiss escaping his mouth. It wasn't _fair,_ that all the girls in the village could have him, that the omegas he met on his quest got to have him, and that everyone else could bend over for him and Sherlock would have to be content with his brotherly protectiveness. A hand at the back of his neck or a fatherly one-armed embrace was all he was likely to get. It didn't stop him from wanting more though. From half wishing that he might present as an Omega and John, even if he didn’t want him for who he was, would allow  his instinct to have the better of him, to push into Sherlock when he begged for it-

 

***

He dreams of him, often. Hands forming bruises at his hips,  cock entering him again and again while he cries out in both pleasure and pain. He's never been had before, but if John takes him, he's sure it will be _lovely._

 

***

The Duke of Wysteria has sent over his son, his mother's nephew, for the summer and Sherlock positively _detests_ him.

 

He speaks to Sherlock as if he is a child, has the most _ridiculous_ laugh and has shagged every one of the chambermaids, and seems to have made his purpose to do so with Sherlock next.

 

The man keeps finding Sherlock when he's alone and hiding from his lessons, or trying to find some peace and quiet, and he'll splay his hands across his waist and convince him to "take a walk with me in the garden" or "show me the North Tower, would you, love."

 

Sherlock may be naive in the ways of the world, sheltered as he has been his entire life- but he is not a complete idiot. He knows what it means when a man’s eyes darken that way- when fingers press too deeply into his hips or a gaze settles for too long on his throat. He could poison the man’s wine if he so wanted, they could never trace it back to him and it would mean the end of this pile of horse droppings, but it would certainly mean war, if the idiot died here. Still, when he forces Sherlock to at least duel with him, he regrets his decision most deeply.

 

The courtyard where they practice is full of knights and one or two kitchen maids; they often come to the arena to flirt with them on their time off. Sherlock flushes. He’s never been very good at swordplay and Rikard is going to cut him to ribbons. They’ll all laugh- behind his back, of course, and make fun of him among themselves. Give him some powdered unicorn horn and a bag of frog’s eyes and he could behead Rikard without lifting a finger, but alas- he wasn’t allowed to practice magic in the open.

 

Sherlock unsheathes his sword- he called it Windrunner, because of the noise it made when it sliced through the air- almost like a flute. It was music. He liked how the sword felt in his hand- John had been there when the swordsmith had made his, had designed the hilt himself; it was encrusted with the head of a raven; with amethyst stones for eyes. It was beautiful, and light, and slender, and Sherlock only wished he could do it justice. As it is, Rikard’s movements are well-practiced and deliberate, and Sherlock feels gawky and un-coordinated in the face of his obvious skill.

 

The knights give them space and gather round to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock see a flash of dark golden hair and aches to turn around and confirm that it’s John, but the look in Rikard’s eyes is predatory and dangerous and it would not bode well for him to look away.

 

“Your sword is as thin as a needle,” he points out, making a quick slash at Sherlock’s feet. He barely escapes it with a jump. Sherlock holds his sword tighter, deciding to go for a defense-is-the-best-offense strategy. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to break skin; instead he’ll settle for making sure Rikard doesn’t break _his._

 

“Makes it easier to hold,” Sherlock replies, blocking a lunge. The vibration travels down his arm and  twists around his collarbone and neck. “A well balanced sword is key, I believe.”

 

Rikard smiles crookedly, as though Sherlock’s a child who’s managed to make a very good joke. “How clever, Sherlock.”

 

The use of his first name jars him for a moment, and Rikard uses the moment to ram his shield into him with all the force he has. It knocks Sherlock backwards, and in attempt to prevent himself from falling he throws out his arms for balance. Rikard smiles mockingly and hooks a foot around his shin, and pulls. Sherlock goes sprawling in the dust, and he’s about to hold up his arms in surrender, to say “I yield” but Rikard doesn’t seem to be done. The next second he’s pushed his foot under Sherlock’s ribs. “Get up, my Lord. Is this all it takes to bring you down a peg?”

 

Sherlock glowers at him furiously, and mustering what strength he has left, pushes off the ground and lunges the sword at his throat with a snarl. Rikard blocks him easily; laughs at him, mocking. But even Sherlock’s lack of skill cannot be compensated with an over-use of violence: John had always told him to not let anger cloud his movements. Precision was key; but he couldn’t give a damn about that right now.

 

“Looks like you enjoy being pushed into the dirt, eh, My Lord?” he sneers, eyes glinting maliciously as he gestures towards Sherlock’s crotch. Heart stuttering, Sherlock risks a glance downwards to see what on earth he’s talking about, when Rikard moves behind him, quick as lightning, and slashes at his neck. Gasping, Sherlock drops his shield- he isn’t allowed to-

 

The knight themselves break into whispers and someone shouts angrily- Sherlock can’t make out what he’s saying because the next moment, Rikard places a knee on the small of his back and pushes him down to his knees, grabs his hair by the roots and makes a quick slash at his throat- right underneath his chin- almost fatal but not quite. What on Earth-?

 

“That’s enough!” someone thunders, and Sherlock sags with relief when the sword point is gone. Blood drips from his skin, spilling onto dirt below. He places a hand there to staunch the flow.

 

Footsteps behind him, the knights are muttering angrily among themselves. Someone wraps an arm around his bicep and pulls him up. He’s met with a pair of fierce blue eyes.

 

“Get yourself cleaned up,” John says, his jaw hard and his eyes cold. Sherlock doesn’t understand- is John angry with him? Because he couldn’t follow instructions, because he acted like a child and allowed the rage to get the better of him?

 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

 

“For what?” John asks, eyes flashing. “Clean up all this blood from your person. And pick up your sword and shield.”

 

“You’ve coddled him, I think, Ser Watson,” he can hear Rikard saying as he takes his sword and shield. “He should be able to take me by now. Instead he can barely hold his sword.”

 

John is smiling at Rikard- but not a genial, brotherly smile. It’s short and cold and terrifying, and Sherlock has seen that smile only rarely, but he knows that John’s mouth curves that way only when he is absolutely furious.

 

“Get him off the courtyard, Ser!” someone shouts. John, barely looking back, holds up a hand. “there now, men. This is the Queen’s nephew. He can fight here for as long as he pleases. And you’re right, of course, My Lord. Our prince might have been- how did you put it? Coddled?”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. John would never say that. A quick glance downward at the fist clenched at his side confirms his suspicions- John is lying, putting on a show. For what, he isn’t sure. He steps slowly off the ground and towards the sun shelter at the border, giving his sandy weapons to a squire to have them cleaned. Another squire runs to him with a damp cloth and a pitcher of water. Sherlock cleans the dried blood off his skin and watches. The entire courtyard is silent, even Ser Tristan, who merely acknowledges Sherlock with a quick bow and a sympathetic glance. Even if the knights felt pity for him, it would be in poor taste to show it. It would only set him up for more taunts.

 

“You should have found yourself a worthier opponent,” John is saying, unsheathing his sword.

 

Rikard’s open-mouthed grin flickers a bit. “Ah, Ser Watson-”

 

“Ah, Ser Rikard,” John counters, his smile widening. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me this? It would be an honour to duel with you.” He bows, one hand behind his back, and then stands straight. “Prince Sherlock may lack the skill, but you, with your twenty four summers, must posses it in immeasurable quantities.”

 

Tristan and Sherlock share a glance, a crooked smile gracing both their features. Rikard still can’t tell he is being mocked.

 

And then, uncertain smile still in place, Rikard bows, and holds his sword in front of him. “Will you not take a shield, Ser Watson?”

 

“I find it slows me down,” John says, and then, as quick as you please, slashes across Rikard’s front. Rikard, surprised, jumps back, and then frowns in determination.

 

But he is no match for John, who pushes him harder and harder, his movements precise, almost cat-like, without the burden of his shield. If Rikard was smarter, he would use John’s lack of a shield against him- but his technique remains the same. He cannot adapt it to his opponent’s skill, and this leads to his failure. He hasn’t yet seen any real battle; and it shows. John flips his sword and hits him in the gut with his hilt, knocking the wind out of him, and just as quickly, whacks his unprotected thigh with the side of his sword. He does not break his skin even once, but his lunges are so quick in succession that Rikard cannot keep up with them and he slows down considerably, barely able to block his thrusts. It would be pitiful to watch if Sherlock wasn’t enjoying it so much, just as the other knights are.

 

Finally John does something spectacular- he knees him in the crotch. Rikard lets out a wail and crumples to the ground, hands flying to cradle his balls. His shield and sword lie forgotten in the dust. The courtyard titters with suppressed laughter.

 

John, smiling coldly,bows to his partner, and walks off. He comes to stand next to Sherlock, grabs the pitcher that the squire is still holding, and pours the cold water all over his face, shaking the excess off.

 

Sherlock swallows, watching him. The water slithers down his sunburnt neck, dampening his collar, water making a journey down his torso to god knows where. John finally spares him a glance- and one of his toothy, wolfish smiles. It’s intoxicating, Sherlock feels quite dizzy. After a second, he smiles back. Small, tentative.

 

“You’re- you- I’ll tell my father!” Rikard shouts, breaking the tenuous moment of connection. Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes, sparing him a glance. He pushes away the two squires who attempt to help him, instead deciding to struggle to his feet on his own.  

 

“That you got kicked in the balls? I look forward to it,” John tells him easily, turning around. Everyone here knows that Rikard would die before doing anything of the sort; it would be embarrassing to the extreme to say such a thing, and the only response he is likely to get from his battle-hardened father is mockery and laughter.

 

When he gets up his face is contorted in fury, and with great difficulty, red in the face- he walks up to Sherlock. Sherlock, suddenly terrified, takes a step back, but he doesn’t have to be scared- John smoothly stands in front of him, one hand resting lightly on his hilt, ready to unsheathe it.

 

“You will not touch the Prince,” he says, loudly for everyone to hear. His voice has dropped half a note and it’s dark and menacing and not at all how his knight usually sounds. It’s a threat, and not an empty one. “I’ve heard of your exploits with the kitchen maids and the ladies-in-waiting, and the only reason you’re not being tried as a raper is because you’re the Queen’s nephew. But mark my words, _My Lord,_ if you even touch a hair on the prince’s head, I will cut off yours and impale it on a spike for all the world to see.”

 

Silence falls over the courtyard. Sherlock blanches, his skin freezing. He did not know that Rikard’s trysts with the maids were nothing but exploitation- he had been under the impression that the maids had enjoyed his attentions.  In hindsight, Rikard was vicious and selfish, and it was extremely possible that any rejection of his advances would lead to an enormous assault upon his pride- and he would take what he wanted by force, if he wished.

 

John’s sword has suddenly appeared and its point is digging into Rikard’s chest. Breathing heavily, his eyes narrow and he scowls.

 

“I’d rather fuck the kennel master’s prize hound than touch the Prince. Your father wished for us to get wed, _Sherlock,_ hoping you’d Present in time for the marriage,” he smiles maliciously at Sherlock. “As if I would, you’re a whore just like your mother.”

 

Tristan utters a strangled sound of fury and pounces at him, but Ulrik, standing next to him, holds him back. “Stand down, man, he’s the Queen’s nephew,” he whispers urgently. John has made no move, not even after his vile words.

 

Sherlock swallows, his fingers twisting. Half of him wants to break his neck, but half of him in frozen in place. Wed? This monster? Would his father have really married him off to this man, who raped the kitchen maids and would have slit Sherlock’s throat out of spite? Did he really mean so little to his father? He feels ill.

 

“Get out or I will pierce you in the heart, hanging be damned,” John spits.

 

Rikard stares him down for a second more before he curses and leaves the courtyard, leaving behind a cloud of dust and the smell of blood.

 

***

 

Sherlock had left the courtyard soon after Rikard, running off towards the woods or somewhere, too preoccupied to speak to John or anyone else. John could find no words to comfort him, and his rage was too intense for him to speak kindly to anyone at the moment. He had been so close to ripping Rikard limb from limb. The man has caused nothing but trouble the moment he had stepped into the palace, the maids were terrified of him and he’d almost killed the Prince. The king had passed it off as a “bit of fun” even though the Queen had looked pale and ill when she heard the news. John hadn’t wanted to tell either of them, but someone had to protect the women in the castle, at least. And Sherlock. John had noticed the way Rikard looked at him, and it made his skin crawl. As if the man already saw Sherlock as something that belonged to him- as though his gaze could linger on him for as long as he pleased. John had been waiting for an opportunity to take him down a notch, and it had been handled to  him on a silver plate.

 

But what of Sherlock? The boy always pretended to be above such things as fear, but John knew that he had been frightened today. Coupled with the news that his own father would have him bound in holy matrimony to a man who would likely hurt him all his married life- well. John sighs. It couldn’t have been very pleasant.

 

He drowns the rest of his mead and makes towards the library. He rarely goes there, but his head is buzzing and he hasn’t seen Sherlock all day since the morning, and he would most likely be in the library. It isn’t like him to seek him out like this, but John misses him. Especially after today, when he could have been injured so easily. John would never be able to forgive himself if something had happened.

 

He thinks of Rikard again and he has to clamp down on his protective rage- the matter has been dealt with and his prince is safe, for now, at least.

 

Sherlock is bent over a book, as usual, perched on top of a ladder leaning against a shelf. He hangs precariously, looking almost ready to fall.

 

“My lord, you will fall and hurt yourself,” John calls. His voice is slurred.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies, as though he’s barely noticed him. “Will you catch me, if I fall?” He snaps the book shut with one hand and peers down at John. “Well?”

  
“I-of course. But I’d rather you not fell, my prince. Would you do me the honour of coming down from your perch?” John curls his fingers around the sides of the ladder, looks up beseechingly at Sherlock.

 

“Very well,” he answers, and instead of climbing down, jumps from above. John, gaping, moves out of his way lest they both tumble to the ground.

 

Sherlock lands gracefully on his feet, and straightens up to stand in front of John. He looks at John in that familiar way of his, his eyes travel from his feet upwards, slowly. Finally he gapes, mockingly. “Ser Watson,” he cries, scandalised. “You’ve been _drinking._ ”

 

“I- perhaps a small amount, My Lord- customary on such nights, I believe-”

 

“Oh cease your babbling,” Sherlock snaps, not unkindly. And then suddenly, he looks hesitant. A pale pink tongue darts out to wet his lips, John follows their winding path almost hungrily. What he wouldn’t give to trace that mouth with his own tongue, perhaps slip inside-

 

These thoughts don’t seem so dangerous in the half light of the library, especially when his head is heavy with drink and Sherlock’s figure is blurred around the edges. It seems almost natural that he should push Sherlock against the shelves, hold him by the hips and press their mouths together, swipe his tongue inside to know the taste of him, for his hands to wander down his delicious body, perhaps crawl under his tunic to brush the pale, soft skin-

 

“Ser Watson?” Sherlock asks, in a manner that leads John to believe this is not the first time he's been called.

 

“My- my apologies, Sire, I- the drink has made me slow.” John swallows, suddenly feeling far too hot. He realises that Sherlock has probably emerged from his bed to come here- he is in his thin nightshirt- leaving very little to the imagination. He curses himself. His disgust at Rikard means nothing if even he cannot keep his eyes off the prince.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies- and then, slowly, raises a hand to rest against the side of John’s neck. His palm is cold, a little damp. John stills, blood rushing in his ears. “I- I wanted to. Thank you. For. What you did today.” The words escape his mouth with difficulty. His cheeks flush pink,  the blush creeps down his neck and possibly under his shirt- but John would never know, for sure.

 

“It is my duty. As your protector. As your Father’s Commander. It is. My charge.” John’s own words slur around each other, tumbling out of mouth like water, flowing into one another. Sherlock’s hand on his skin is making it difficult to think.

 

Sherlock’s face seems to fall. His eyes cloud over with disappointment. His smile becomes impossibly sad and suddenly John is miserable- what could he do to make him happy again? Anything- he’d do anything.

 

“Did I say something wrong, Sire?” he asks.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. And then, slowly leans forward and presses his lips to John’s. It is quick, and chaste, and over in a second, and yet when Sherlock pulls back John feels as though his skin is on fire, his head spinning like a top.

 

“My Lord-” he croaks.

“Shhh,” one delicate, slender finger presses against his mouth. “Are you angry?”

 

“No,” John says, his voice a little muffled by Sherlock’s finger.

 

But you mustn’t, he thinks. This is wrong. It is a betrayal. It is cruel, for you to give me so little when I want much, much more. John aches to twist his fingers into the inky curls, press his body against his own, feel the contours of his slender frame.

 

“I- I must go,” Sherlock says suddenly, arm dropping. “I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- forgive me.”

 

John’s eyes widen and he makes to reach for Sherlock but he’s already rushing out.

 

John is left in the library, alone, cold and wondering, and achingly hard.

 

***

 

For the next few days, Sherlock avoids John. And when he does see him, he smiles and speaks to him as though that strange night in the library never happened. He feels sick, as though he’s done something awful and shameful. He’d thought John desired him- for _him,_ but John only loved him as one would love his charge. He protected him out of a sense of duty, was kind to him because Sherlock was his King’s son. He appreciated his oddities and eccentricities and called him “brilliant” because Sherlock was his duty, because it was what was expected of him as a protector. Perhaps, like the others, he thought him strange and other worldly, and only pretended to like him because he had no choice.

 

It hadn’t stopped him from the kissing the knight though-  he couldn’t help himself. He was so warm, so inviting, and John had _smelled_ so lovely- he had wanted nothing more than to press his nose to his neck; inhale the scent, commit it to memory. John had never smelled like anything to him before- but now he smells -he smells like something that should belong to Sherlock. It makes no sense, because he is a Beta, and yet, Sherlock cannot explain it.

 

Rikard was due to leave in a few days, and Sherlock could breathe easily again. His father’s hopes for a matrimonial alliance had been spoiled, and he was not the least bit sorry.

 

“ _Alphas are always a bit rough in their youth, my child. If you Present- after the marriage he will become gentler, and care for you as a mate should.”_

 

Sherlock snorted. He would assault all the maids in the land and then breed Sherlock full of pups, again and again. That was all.

 

John seemed to have forgotten the incident, because when Sherlock has no other choice but to attend an archery lesson, they meet and he is usual cheerful, smiling self. He calls him “Little Prince” affectionately, and praises him when he hits the target. Sherlock has always been excellent at archery, and he flushes at John’s kind words. He is glad, of course. It wouldn’t do for John to remember. And yet, it makes him sad, to know that John will never remember the touch of his lips against his own.

 

***

 

If Sherlock hadn’t been so blinded with his infatuation with the knight, he would have been able to pinpoint what was happening to him, and saved himself a great deal of trouble.

 

As it is, his fever and the ache in his stomach make it difficult to think. He feels restless and queasy, and even the gentle flow of his silken tunic chafes against his skin. He removes it and dons himself in a lighter summer shirt- not very appropriate for the day, but he can’t bear to think of wearing anything else.

 

John has left to fight in a skirmish taking place on the outskirts- it would be easily dealt with, and he’d be back soon. Sherlock misses him terribly all morning, unable to keep his breakfast down. The cook titters and fusses over him, offers to bake him a lemon tart but even the thought of something so sweet makes him recoil.

 

He takes a cold bath, and it provides him relief, but only for a few minutes. Soon afterwards the heat creeps up his body again and the dull pain in his abdomen increases. He doesn’t know how to stop it- would a pain killer work? A sedative, perhaps, to calm him? He can barely rest as it is- the sheets become too hot within a second and his body becomes slicked with sweat.

 

Even a brush of his own fingers seem to leave a trail of fire down his own skin. And he feels- odd. Weightless. Empty? Sherlock curls his fingers around his stomach. Perhaps he should eat something- but no. He knows he would puke it all out as soon as he swallowed it.

 

He decides what he needs is fresh air- so he takes a bottle of ice cold wine from the kitchens and heads towards the woods. Perhaps he’ll take a dip in the pond.

 

***

 

What he does instead, is fall asleep. Lulled by the soft, cool wind and the soft press of grass, his eyes grow heavy and he closes them, and slips into a deep slumber.

 

When he wakes up- Sherlock is _burning._

 

He gasps, his hands flying to his crotch almost instinctively, and he is painfully hard, his cock straining against his breaches. When he shifts, he feels the wetness between his arse cheeks- it is slippery and slimy, not unlike the glue his mother uses to fix the antiques.

 

He grinds down on the grass, as though it will somehow fill the gaping emptiness he feels. His eyes fill with tears at the thought of never, ever finding relief, of being this empty _forever,_ of never being able to find a long, thick Alpha cock to fill him-

 

Wait, _what_?

 

Sherlock is- Sherlock is in _heat._

 

He scrambles to his feet, takes a deep lungful of air. Immediately he shivers, trying to press his arse against the tree, aching for friction, for _anything_. His hands slip underneath his breaches and find his aching, hard cock, and he squeezes. Immediately he realises this was an enormous mistake- it does nothing but increase his desire tenfold. He falls to the ground with the shock of it, it feels as though a wave has crashed into his slim body. It is impossible to keep his hands away from himself now- he gets up on his hands and knees, wraps his fingers around himself and strokes feverishly. It takes him barely three seconds before he’s spending himself right there on the grass. Wetness gushes out of his arse, his hole contracting, searching for something to clench around.

 

He’s suddenly very, very aware of the sweat dripping down his temple, down his back, pooling in the hollows and crevices of his body. He wants to rip off all his clothes, lie down on the grass perhaps- and then stick his fingers up his arse and never release them. That’s what he wants- he decides. To be plugged up forever and forever, so he never feels so sad, so empty, so _alone._

 

But his sense kicks in the next second- if he does that here, it would attract anyone. With shaking limbs he rises to his feet, fumbles with his laces as he ties himself again. He feels tired- exhausted, almost- unable to fathom the long walk back to the castle. Even Mycroft isn’t at home, he must have gone with Father to the Northern Isle to parley with the king.

 

But of what use are these matters of state, when Sherlock is in _pain_?

 

He stumbles for a few steps, and then realises it is dark- where did he come from, anyway? The woods are suddenly dark and menacing and Sherlock has no idea which direction to travel. At that moment another spasm grips him and he has to lean against a tree to stop himself from falling to the ground. His fingers dig into the wood, and the wood digs into his skin- drawing blood.

 

Sherlock takes a sharp breath, the pain suddenly giving him some clarity.

 

He steps away, and starts walking west. That’s where the stable will be -it’s the closest to a shelter and it will be empty at the moment, considering the stable boy is in the village shagging the Inn keeper’s daughter. He is likely to stay there for the night.

 

Sherlock makes progress slowly, and haltingly. Every few seconds a pain rushes to his groin, and a pressure squeezes his ribs. It is a godly effort to keep his hands away from his crotch or his arse- if he starts to pleasure himself now, he will never be able to get up and become easy prey for both wolves and men- and Sherlock is not sure which is worse.

 

He can tell he’s crying softly on the way, his cheeks are wet with tears. From want or pain, he does not know. All he knows is that he needs to get out of the woods and into the stable- where he can climb into the loft and take off his clothes and perhaps find someone willing to fuck him blind-

 

No. No he can’t. That would be ridiculous.

 

Or would it? Something that he wants so badly can hardly be ridiculous. Not when he’s so sure it would provide him with relief.

 

But he doesn’t want just _anyone_ , Sherlock knows who he wants- he’s wanted him forever and now, finally, _finally,_ he will want him back. Yes, he will call for John and ask him to mate him, to breed him- stuff him full of his seed so that’s he’s his, forever, inextricably. So he will belong to John and John will belong to him. John would never hurt him- he is kind, and strong and he’s known him for _years._ John would be perfect, he would take Sherlock for the first time and Sherlock would fall apart under his hands.

 

Lost in the fantasy- rough, calloused hands running over his skin, a thick cock splitting him open, fingers grabbing and twisting his hair until he’s crying, begging for release- Sherlock finally finds the stable.

 

Stumbling, he enters it, hurriedly locks it and pulls a trough out of a stable to place it against the door. The effort leaves him shivering and sweating, and he falls, sighing with relief, into an enormous pile of hay.

 

***

 

John returns from the skirmish in the late afternoon. After their horses have been taken away and rubbed down, the stable boys- Jack and Tom?- make to the pub in the village, laughing and speaking lewdly about the inn keeper’s daughter, Alice.

 

Exhausted, he falls asleep in his room, after having his squire remove his armour. He is still in his blood- covered clothes, but he doesn’t have the energy to remove them.

 

When he wakes up, he searches for Sherlock- but can’t find him. The cook tells him that the boy was feeling ill and went off to the woods for some sun, which John finds worrying. Ill? Has he caught a fever?

 

As it is Sherlock has been distant and strange with him for the past week, and John has no idea why. He doesn’t think he has done anything to upset the young prince, yet he is, of course, temperamental and prone to childish tantrums, despite his age. But if he is ill, he should be inside the castle. He’ll have the Maester look him over, if he is indeed ill and not simply trying to avoid John. Which would be possible, John muses.

 

But the sun has set and it has grown dark and John prays feverishly that Sherlock is not still in the woods.

 

Suddenly, mid way, he stops.

 

What-

 

What is-

 

What is that _smell_?

 

Immediately John stills, sniffing. It’s achingly familiar, and yet he cannot place his finger on it. It’s also- completely irresistible. John has had enough Ruts to know that the scent is unmistakable- a ripe omega in heat, and not just any heat.

 

Their first.

 

John groans, his hand slipping towards his crotch before he stops himself. Likely the omega is terrified and suffering greatly- and John is either intruding upon an intimate moment or the youngling is alone. Either way, they must need help. Is it one of the maids? Perhaps- perhaps one of the knights? As far as he knows there are no omegas- only Alphas and a few Betas. More likely it is a squire- and John is sure they shouldn’t be here, in the woods, where they could get hurt.

 

He follows the smell, but it becomes harder and harder to think through the haze of lust that begins to envelope him. He has smelled omegas before, and the pull- it has never been so strong before. The closer he gets the more all-encompassing it becomes, until it becomes _imperative_ that he find the writhing omega and- and-do they want to be knotted? John will ask, he will ask, no matter how difficult it is, and if they refuse, he will take them to safety. That is his duty, as an Alpha, as the King’s Knight. He refuses to be a slave to his body’s desires.

 

Yet the smell- it is...it is _irresistable._ It’s near close enough now, and it seems to be coming from the stables. If John listens carefully, he can hear the soft sounds of someone whimpering. It is  a familiar sound- and the smell wraps around him as though he’s known it for ages.

 

He walks up to the door, already aching in his breaches. He tries to push open the door, but either it’s locked or the omega has blocked the entry. This is the stable where the hay is kept- and supplies for the animals- which explains why there isn’t any frenzied neighing or clucking.

 

“Hello?” he calls, his voice rough. This would only scare the omega further. As it is, he can smell fear along with arousal- whoever the omega is, they are afraid. John wishes he could be there, comfort the poor thing. “Hello, love. Open the door. I won’t hurt you.”

 

The whimpering stops. A second or two of silence. And then, unmistakable: “John?”

 

John staggers backwards, gaping. His cock, which had been half hard, strains against his breeches, twitching. Suddenly it makes sense- of course it had smelt familiar, he’d been smelling it for years- only now it was intensified, _ripened._

 

John’s mouth waters.

 

“Sherlock?” he calls back. “W-what-” It doesn’t seem plausible. Sherlock is Unpresented, and yet- and yet here they are. He can practically taste him on his tongue- he would be in there, writhing and dripping, hoping feverishly for a knot. Would he let John knot him? John would fuck him slowly, let him relax, kiss that sinful mouth- he’d bond with him, if he wanted. If only he’d open the door-

 

“Open the door,” he says. He sounds strangled. “Sherlock, please.”

 

“I-” Sherlock whimpers again, and sobs. He sounds miserable and John _aches._ He _has_ to be there, has to touch him, hold him against his body, kiss him- fuck him so hard he forgets his own name-

 

“Will you- will you help me?” he asks feebly. John lays his heated forehead against the wood, breathing shallowly.

 

“Anything you want.” his nails dig into the door. “Let me inside, Sherlock.”

 

“I- I can’t. It’s too much. Can you- can you- _ah, fuck-_ ”

John has never heard him utter profanity, and the effect is- well. John’s imagination soars. “I can’t break the door down, love, we’ll have to lock it again. Please. Come here. Come to me.”

Sherlock makes a hoarse sound, and then he can hear soft footsteps. Something grinds against the floor, and then there is a groaning sound of wood against wood- and finally- the door opens.

 

John slips inside before he can open it completely, and then stops.

 

Sherlock, pale and shaking from the effort of moving an enormous trough and unlocking the heavy door, falls into John’s arms. John gasps, sucking in an enormous lungful of air- coated with Sherlock’s unique scent. His arms wrap around the trembling body- which he now realises- is naked. Sherlock, panting, tightens his hold around John, and then shoves his face into the crook of John’s neck.

 

“You- you came looking for me?” he asks feebly.

 

“Of course,”John replies hoarsely. One hand cups the back of his damp curls, the other wraps securely around his waist. His breeches are already drenched with Sherlock’s slick- his own arousal hard as iron and nearly poking a hole through the cloth. He allows Sherlock to scent him, before he twists his hand into his curls and pulls his head back, crushing their lips together.

 

Sherlock makes a small, helpless noise and opens his mouth. It is less of a kiss and more of a claiming- John presses him closer until there is nothing between them except John’s clothes. He tightens his hold around his waist to keep him standing still because Sherlock is still shaking, his legs weak. He bites that plump bottom lip like he’s always wanted to- hands roaming down his sweat-slicked back to grope at his arse. Sherlock gasps against his mouth and John can no longer handle it- he needs to be inside him, _now._ Hooking both arms under his arse he picks him up, walks them backwards to the back of the shed and drops him onto the stack of hay. He slips off his sweat-drenched shirt and throws it behind him, and then he’s on top of Sherlock.

 

“Oh- _oh gods,_ ” Sherlock moans, arching his back as another paroxysm rips through his frail lithe body. John wipes his tears away and kisses him again, softer this time. Sherlock hums, pressing up against his still sheathed cock.

 

“Sherlock,” John breathes, licking up his neck. “Sherlock, I’m going to fuck you, and I need you to say yes. Do you want this?”

 

“John- _John,”_ Sherlock warbles in reply.

 

John picks himself up, supports himself on the palm of his hands, looking down at Sherlock. His dark hair is spread like a halo around his head, his silver eyes dark and clouded, his lips parted like red blood against ivory. John brushes a thumb across his mouth and Sherlock’s eyes flutter.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, softer.

 

Sherlock mouths the tip of his thumb with his tight lips and then whispers, “You. I’ve always wanted you, John. Always.”

 

John groans, and kisses him again, reaching towards his breeches to free his cock. It springs out, hard and leaking, and Sherlock shudders when he feels it against his own smaller, pretty little prick.

 

“Gods, you are beautiful,” John says quietly, swiping his dark hair away from his forehead. Sherlock’s cheeks blush further. He cups his hands underneath the boy’s knees and heaves his legs up, wraps them around his back, and pitches forward until his cock brushes his entrance. It’s already leaking copiously, his body is aware that relief is nearby and is preparing him as much as possible. He wants nothing more than to push into him, to fuck him hard and fast, but he still asks one more time.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, John breaches him.

 

Sherlock moans so loudly that John is afraid even the castle will hear him. His back arches right off the hay, legs clamp tighter around him. His sob is half relief and half pain at being entered so quickly. John runs his hands soothingly down his sides, trying to slow himself down, but Sherlock clenches so tightly around him that it takes a Herculean effort. He grits his teeth, grips Sherlock’s wrists and holds them above his head.

 

“ _Please,_ ” Sherlock begs. “please please please…” he tosses his head from side to side, completely gone. John pushes in the rest of the way and Sherlock makes a broken, hapless sound, wrists twisting, bones grinding against one another. John sees stars. He pulls back out, and then in again, making Sherlock writhe underneath him.

 

“I- I want- _more, John, please-”_

 

It is heaven to hear him say his first name, and John starts to set a rhythm- it has no technique, really, except to make them both find release as soon as possible. He lets go of Sherlock’s wrists and immediately the boy wraps his arms around his neck, pulling him as close to his face as possible. John pistons his hips into his tight warmth- his cock so deep inside Sherlock that he thinks wonderingly how Sherlock took all of him inside. “ _Harder,_ ” he urges him, and his eyes go wide and glassy when John finds his prostate. He pulls back and hits it again, and Sherlock mewls like a cat.

 

“Like- like that, God, John, please- _fuck me,_ fuck me so hard I can’t walk _for days,_ ” he babbles, and John knows, deep inside, that he would never hurt Sherlock like that but he’s already fucking hard and fast into him, his thrusts growing more powerful and brutal by the second. Sherlock’s frame slides back and forth, and he knows tomorrow his skin will be chafed and raw. He dips his head and sucks a bruise onto his neck- there. On his neck, and at the base of his throat and across his collarbone. Sherlock shudders and shivers under the onslaught, calling out his name like it’s the only thing he knows.  John’s hands wander down his chest, find the rosy buds of his nipples and pulls. Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head and his mouth lols open- he looks like a painting, like a masterpiece, like a god of pleasure John would worship all day, if he could. His finger nails dig into John’s back like a benediction.

 

“You’re mine,” John says, and it is a statement of fact. He doesn’t need to growl it out or whisper it as a threat, Sherlock knows as well as he does that now he belongs to him, just as much as John is his. There never has been anyone else, and there never will.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, his voice broken. His fingers swipe into John’s hair, tugs. “Gods, I’ve always been yours.”

 

“Good,” John says. “No one else can ever have you. I’ll kill them. Stab them- through the heart-” he shoves his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s eyes close and he sucks them as though they’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. His sharp teeth bite into the skin and the pain translates into the most pleasure John has ever felt during sex- ever. Sherlock’s tight passage welcomes him like he’s _made_ for him, like Sherlock can only ever be fucked by Ser John Watson.

 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agrees around his fingers, and when John pulls away, his open mouth follows his fingers like a wanton whore. God, he’d have him for days and days if he could. He’s never wanted another person like this before, never wanted to lay down his life as much for anyone else, not even his own King. Sherlock has his heart.

 

John curls his fingers around his throat and squeezes- gently. Sherlock’s moans become more breathless, and John’s hips pick up pace. He grabs him by the hips and hoists him higher on his cock so that each thrust hits his prostate. Sherlock’s moans tumble into meaningless noises, short gasps of breath, whimpers, and only the first syllable of John’s name-

“Joh-Joh-Joh” he goes, never able to complete. “Mine,” he finally says, and clenches around John’s cock deliciously. “I’m- I’m _coming,_ ” he says, wonderingly, and John kisses him, capturing the lips in his own, fucking him through his climax.

 

Sherlock goes limp, his eyes half lidded and his mouth parted, his body pliant and warm as John thrusts into him until his knot flares at the base of his cock. “God,” he groans, “ _Sherlock_.” Sherlock pulls him tighter against his body,  until John’s damp forehead is against his.

 

“Come inside me, John- fill me up-” he whispers, and with a grunt, John spends inside him. He grips his hips so tight that there will be bruises tomorrow, keeping him against his cock until the last of his seed spills into Sherlock’s tight hole. He wants him full and dripping with his come, so that everyone knows who’s had him, who’s had their mouth on his and whose marks his body is littered with.

 

Sherlock sags with relief, his chest rising rapidly up and down. John knows he can’t slip out of him now, so he gently manoeuvres the two of them- until Sherlock is on  his side and his back is against John’s chest. John slides his hand down his back and wraps it around his waist, pulling him against his front. Sherlock makes a soft, contented sound, his body becoming softer and more relaxed.

 

“Sherlock?” he whispers, tucking a loose strand behind his ear.

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

John plants another kiss on his head, and it feels so good to finally say it: to have it out in the open. Perhaps, tomorrow, he will regret it, but today, right, it seems so natural for Sherlock to know. There never has been anyone else for him, there never could be. Sherlock is the most important person in his life.

 

Sherlock gradually falls asleep, and John’s knot deflates and he is able to slip out without hurting Sherlock. His eyes grow heavy a second later, and he too floats.

 

***

 

It seems only a minute later that he’s being woken up, with a soft, wet warmth around his cock. He groans, hips shifting upwards into the tightness, one hand reaching downward towards his prick, his hands instead finding soft, springy curls.

 

“God, Sherlock-” he groans, fingers threading between them. Sherlock makes a noise of great contentment, as though he would never want anything as much as he wanted John’s cock in his mouth, and his lips continue to slide up and down.

 

John brings himself to his elbows and risks a glance down, and nearly comes right then and there. Sherlock has one hand wrapped around the base of his cock,his mouth working the tip, pretty pink tongue lapping up his seed like a cat. He doesn’t try to take his whole length- it would be difficult for his first time, but he makes up for it with his clever fingers. His gaze travel upwards at John, and keeping his eyes fixed on him he licks a slow stripe up his shaft, before scooping his cock into his lips once more.

 

John aids the effort by cupping the back of his head, guiding him around his cock, until Sherlock releases his prick and instead climbs up his body.

 

“If- If I knew it would be like this, I would have asked you to fuck me long ago,” he says, ducking his head to kiss John. John’s fingers weave into his curls, tug gently, he kisses him back. Sherlock reaches behind himself to take John’s cock in his hand, and brings it towards his hole, which is once again wet and slippery. He takes it easily, it slips in with very little resistance. Sherlock sighs when he’s fully seated, and John can feel his plush and full arse against his thighs. He balances himself with his hands on John’s chest, and rocks forward a bit. John groans, hands flying to Sherlock’s hip to steady him.

 

“You- will be the death of me,” he bites out, as Sherlock begins to rock back and forth.

 

“When I woke up,” Sherlock gasps. “I couldn’t fathom why we had stopped. I wanted more of you, only you, wanted you to be inside me so much it _hurt,_ ” he said. “I almost cried.”

 

John’s heart squeezes at the very thought. He curls both his hands possessively over his waist, fucks up and into him. Sherlock tips his head towards the ceiling, his neck looking exposed and vulnerable and delectable. John grabs him by the neck and brings him down, to press a hard kiss against his throat. Sherlock’s breaths turn short and shallow while John licks the spot, his arse moving restlessly up and down his cock.

 

His lifts his head up to look at John, and John stares into the silvery depths and forgets life outside the two of them. He cups Sherlock’s warm cheek with his hand, thumb brushing against the sharp ridge of a cheekbone. There is nothing, nothing he wouldn’t do, to keep this boy safe. To protect him. Sherlock blinks at him, his mouth parted, and John feels his heart expand until it has the two of them. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it almost feels like his soul has found Sherlock’s, that they’ve entwined together as one.

 

“I- _oh god,_ ” Sherlock sobs, rollings his hips backward and forward in a decidedly sluttish way. “Your cock- I never- gods, it’s so _big…”_ he doesn’t say it to be coy, or to seduce John (as though he needed to) he sounds honestly bewildered, as though he had expected something different.

 

“Are you complaining, My Lord?” John asks smugly, bringing Sherlock hips down possessively and pushing his cock up.

 

“N-no,” Sherlock gasps.

 

Suddenly John sits up, grabs Sherlock by the hips so that they’re face to face, and moves him up and down his cock in quicker, shorter thrusts. Sherlock breaths become quick and ragged, he buries his face in John’s shoulder and bounces on his cock desperately. John grabs him by the neck and pulls him back, closes his mouth over Sherlock so when he comes, he can kiss his release out of him.

 

“John- John- _John-_ ” he chants, hands tightening around his neck.

 

“Yes, my lovely, my star, my Sherlock,” John croons. “Come for me, Sherlock.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, and then they’re both coming, him inside of Sherlock while he gushes against his cock, and Sherlock on his stomach.

 

John falls back against the hay with a sigh, and Sherlock lies on top of him, head pressed against his neck, thighs on either side of his hips. John runs a hand down his back, presses his fingers into sore muscles, lays soft kisses down his neck.

 

“You’re gorgeous, my love,” he whispers.

 

***

 

John stays awake while Sherlock sleeps, stroking his hair. They will have to leave the stable soon- Sherlock will have to be in his own bed. He doesn’t know what the morning will bring. Was this a terrible mistake? Yes. Does John regret it? No.

 

Sherlock sleeps on, oblivious of the tumult of John’s thoughts.

 

They will have much to think about when Sherlock wakes up, but first of all, John needs to get him back to the castle.

 

Without anyone knowing.

 

Fuck.

 


End file.
